The Picnic
by Gasshu The Buttress Wizard
Summary: This tightly-woven suspensful piece of experimental humor follows the adventure of one unlucky man. Can he quell his inner demons in time, or let them win? Read and find out! Spoilers do not tread in this mere synopsis.


The Author: The following is an experimental story of oddball humor and the non-sequitor. It isn't based on anyone per-se, just the overt ridiculousness of the modern age. Contained within are minor allusions to stories/well known entertainment, but I'll leave the real interpretation up to you.

DISCLAIMER: Any similarities to celebrities/other famous people/things/whatever is entirely for parodic use. I do not make money from my writings. All I expect is for people to love what I spew forth.

~The Picnic

The moon shone brightly upon the small housing complex below. A seductive quietness glided throughout the tiny-knit community. All within their abodes sat silently at this hour; eight O'clock. The Huffs played kindly a game of Monopoly within the confines of their quaint kitchen. The Santita's silently bickered with monotonous body language, accompanied by the backdrop of a savory fireplace flame. However, not all was lovely in this fine village, oh no. There was I, a human being of mediocre age. Not too old, but much younger than one would think. At this hour, there was just but a small issue-more like a problem-on my hands. You see, the plumbing had completely frozen within my home. Don't ask me why or how, it just did. Unexpectedly. Well, I had just been out some hours earlier at the local cantina. The wonderful establishment served the fieriest, finely crafted Tex-Mex that happened to be beyond imagination. Lusciousness made way into my colon via that divine dive, which happens to be the cause of my current predicament.

My stomach bubbled and sloshied from within the confines of all that was bodily, and intense pains surged through my abdominal cavity. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, blurring my vision. A pair of dainty, feather-like legs carried my Tex-Mex humbled body through the dew-covered grass of the backyard. Why would I be running through a backyard, you ask? In the late evening, you ask? The toilets of my home were unusable. Fortunately, there was a lovely park some yards of undeterminable length across from the backyard of which I was madly careening through. Public johns of questionable quality resided there. Soon, they were going to be mine! But, as one might have guessed, that wouldn't be the case. At least not within this story.

Anyhow, my nightgown fluttered in the cool nighttime breeze as I continued the mad dash to sanctuary and salvation. At that moment, I suddenly lost my bearings and stopped. Dead in my tracks, I stopped. Pain gripped me at that second; terrible, unholy pain and guttysounds. My knees came down first, with my back arched within the air. Silently, I stared upwards at the starry heavens, praying for luck. No chance; this was going to happen here and now. I sunk my toes into the soft dirt and threw my fists into those dew covered blades of grass, and began to mutter unintelligible ventilations from my maw. At this instant, a fecal chorus of orchestral quality tore through my shorts in a deafening, ascending blow that quickly descended into a fecal-crap storm of madness and all that was decayed, planting a scorching slap onto the crux of my inner thighs, all the while stabbing into the poor soil below like Poseidon's trident.

Following this, a high-pitched but equally guttural tremor rose from my bruised and battered bung, alerting the community in a terrible flatulent tune. The first to take offense to this sound was Mrs. Tissle. She sat in her dust-encrusted throne, taking joy at the psychobabble that was Jeopardy. Infuriated, Mrs. Tissle raised a putrid eyebrow and began to stare out her window. She was suddenly interrupted by the terrified cries of her three darling babies: Mierdas, Durchfall, and BettyGobble. "SHUT UP!", Mrs. Tissle barked. Her little darlings continued to howl, and to this, she reached into the confines of her slime-laced stockings. From this wonderful garment, she pulled forth a damp fist-full of roaches and canned tuna. The rotten grip of goods was then hurled at her babies, landing straight into their mouths and immediately returning them to blissful baby sleep.

Still, angered at what awakened her precious little ones, Mrs. Tissle arose from her grand throne and lumbered to the window. Her bulbous body splintered the floor boards as she made her saintly 4-feet journey from chair to window, but didn't completely break. Somehow, anyway. Mrs. Tissle then arched her head back and quickly jutted it forward in an angry exclamation of "SHUT THE %&*$ UP!" Daintily, as far as Mrs. Tissle is concerned, she made her way back to that juicy throne of wretchedness. I didn't actually view this at all obviously, but she may have done all of that.. She did exclaim that exclamation I'm sure, but the other stuff is story-buffer. Maybe.

Back to poor, crapped-my-pants me, I sat on the cold ground. A steaming disc a formed underneath my now-exposed gluteal-cleft. My pain was then gone, and all felt right with the world. Drunkly, I steadfastly made my way back to my house and landed lovingly onto the bed. As soon as my head hit that beautiful opaque feather-pillow, I drifted into dreamland. Cutely, I might add. Or additionally, whichever works.

Fine, mid-morning sunshine seeped through the window blinds onto my silky façade. I arose and yawned, stretching my dainty arms towards the ceiling. With that, I turned the television straight to the local news. A well-cut weatherman made his way front and center, beginning the day with a sudden weather bulletin. "A rare spring frost blanketed the county early this morning, freezing small puddles on the streets and generally creating an unsafe environment for driving. All should be fine this afternoon when temperatures are expected to reach 67 degrees. This is Timothy Tommykins The 2nd and a ½, reporting from local channel 2. Thanks for tuning in, and have an action filled day!"

Suddenly, I shuddered. That diarrhea pat? "No…", I said aloud. With a quick sprint, I made it to the back window and threw it open, looking out at my backyard and the adjacent Petticoat Park Avenue Park Playplace for Families Funzone. There sat a sign right at the end of the backyard marked "Picnic Zone". As you may have guessed, this area wasn't vacant. The local crazy family, The Buntards, happily conversed over a fine brunch picnic spread. About eight feet from them lay the pat of colonic goodness. One of the two kids of the family ventured right over, staring at the disc inquisitively. He seemed to notice the smooth texture and the dull lifelessness of its now frozen self, brought on by the nocturnal freezing. Very fast, before I could quickly take it in, the boy prodded the frozen pat with a stick until it poked clean into it, letting loose a small steam that reeked of death. He didn't take notice to the stench right away, but that was a simple testament to the intelligence of The Buntards.

In sudden excitement and ignorance, little-boy Buntard grabbed the disc with both hands and pulled it from the ground, small frozen shards splintering from the edges. "HEY EVERYBODY, LOOK!", he yelled. "IT'S A GIANT WHOOPIE PIE!" Before I could yell "no" and stop the little boy, not that I thought to, he slammed it down onto the middle of his family's picnic spread. "WOW! IT IS A WHOOPIE PIE!", his parents and two siblings joyfully cackled. "LET'S EAT!", said the father. I couldn't stop them, but who am I kidding? The family then happily enjoyed and giggled during their picnic.

~El End.


End file.
